Professor Snape's Perversion
by Archetypist
Summary: What is Professor Snape REALLY doing with Hermione Granger during all of those private detentions? The answers might surprise you!
1. Severus I

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit._

**Severus I**

"Detention, Miss Granger," I say in my low, silky "public" voice. The tiresomely predictable series of events follows: outrage in her brown eyes; a stifled retort pressing her lips together. The Weasley sprout opening his mouth to protest; Granger and Potter pulling at his arms and whispering to silence him. Sullen endurance for the rest of the class and a departure laced with resentful mutterings.

Classroom empty, I lean back in my chair and exhale hard enough to flutter the parchments on the desk. "Thank you, Neville Longbottom," I murmur, knowing that without his staggering incompetence-and Granger's inability to resist helping-excuses for giving her detention would be far harder to come by.

The rest of the day drags interminably, and when I retreat to my chambers I'm thankful to have survived the inane chatter at the staff table. The sound of my door closing marks my first real privacy of the day. Dumbledore himself would take a while to get past my wards, only to meet the second layer of them.

First a bath, washing away potions odors and the greasy pomade I use on my hair each day. Then a cup of tea completely fails to calm and center me, for she'll be here soon. I'm caught in my familiar cycle of eagerness and self-loathing, knowing that what I'm about to do to her is a violation deeper than any despicable act I've committed as a Death Eater.

I dress again in my usual black and return to the classroom at two minutes before eight o'clock-Miss Granger is, of course, obsessively punctual and the expected knock comes exactly on the hour. She enters, looking just as she does during the day with her school uniform and annoying Gryffindor tie. When I order her to follow me into my chambers, she has the same quizzical expression she always does, but her obedience to authority wins out. My hands tremble as we walk, but I manage to conceal it until my warded doors swing shut. It's time.

_"__Imperio Benevolus!"_

There's a moment of shock on her face when she sees my wand pointed at her, but then comes the transformation. Her expression, her posture, everything about her relaxes and rearranges itself. A soft smile breaks over her face, and she steps forward and throws her arms around my neck. I'm embraced in her, surrounded by her feminine energy, and my own face relaxes a bit for the first time in days.

Stepping back, she caresses the side of my face-my ugly, sallow face-with a loving hand. "Severus," she chides, "You don't look as if you've eaten at all today! I suppose you just picked at your meals again. You order something from the house-elves this instant, while I change."

She retreats to my bedroom, and I move to obey, summoning an elf and ordering soup and sandwiches for both of us. I'm arranging the food on the table in my study when she emerges, wrapped in her favorite dark green robe. My favorite robe, I should say, since it's my size and I wrap myself in it every night she isn't here, trying to get some comfort from traces of her scent.

It's a quiet meal, punctuated only by her offers of more tea and my murmured thanks. She seems to sense how tightly wound I am today, and instinctively gives me time and silent space. It's truly astounding that she has such sensitivity while under this spell, and in thinking this I feel another wave of shame at the vision of the hatred and disgust she would have for me if the spell were broken. I push it away with all my strength-there will be plenty of time for that after she leaves! Now is the time to savor her presence, and pretend that someone cares for me.

Someone cares for me. That's a laugh. How amused James and Sirius would be, if they knew that their object of ridicule has lived up to their sneering predictions-that I am so pathetic that the only way to get some human kindness is to invent a spell adapted from one of the Unforgivables, one that compels the victim to be kind and loving to the caster. They're probably doubled over with laughter, wherever they are. Not that I'll ever see the place.

Hermione, true to the spell's urging, interrupts the dark turn my silence has taken with a question about my day. Gladly, I distract myself by telling her about my classes and the amusing or frustrating incidents in them. She laughs, shakes her head commiseratingly, and generally makes me feel that I have shown great forbearance in not hexing any students. We talk about my latest potions experiments, and she talks about a project she's been contemplating.

It isn't until the third cup of tea that I reach that mysterious state, the place I need someone like her to open up. My face begins to crumple in on itself, losing most of its harsh lines, and my hands start to tremble again. She leans forward, as I know she will. "What's wrong, Severus?" she asks me, her soft voice filled with concern, and I look at her shining eyes and break down.

The table's pushed aside and I'm on my knees in front of her chair, my arms clutching her to me for dear life, my face buried in the soft juncture between her neck and shoulder, and I'm sobbing brokenly into the dark of it. She puts her arms around me and makes inarticulate sounds of comfort as I let it all go-my loneliness, my grief about Lily, my anger, my terror about facing Voldemort, my fear that I won't be strong enough.

"It's been a week; the Mark is sure to burn soon," I choke out as she rocks me in her arms. "He's been angry with me for not having any new information; he'll punish me again; I can't do it, oh gods I can't, Greyback will be there again-" and I can't even go on in words, remembering the terror, the humiliation of Greyback on me, _in_ me, me weak and shaking from the Cruciatus, hearing Lucius and the others laughing and waiting their turn; is Dumbledore really enough of an idiot to think I only endure physical pain on his damned spying missions?

Hermione Granger, Gryffindor know-it-all and brightest witch of her age, lifts my arm and lays gentle kisses all over my Dark Mark, whispering to me how brave I am. She tells me she believes in me; reassures me that my strength will not fail. She orders me to think of her during the torture and rape, to imagine her love for me as a shield they will not, cannot penetrate.

When my sobs quiet down and my spasmodic grip on her relaxes, she urges me upright and to my bed. With her healing hands she undresses me and presses me down to the soft surface, curling next to me and pulling the blanket over us. Again and again her smooth hand traces over my chest and shoulders, until I am at the edge of sleep, and the last thing I feel is her soft exhalations.

I awaken first-I always do; there's a spell on my bed to ensure it. Emerging from my shower, I find her stretching and smiling at me. "I hope you slept well, Severus...you look better. But I'm afraid I must get back to Gryffindor tower so I can put in an appearance at breakfast." She's dressed in record time and pulls me to her, kissing me tenderly on the cheek. "You take better care of yourself today, do you hear? And remember what I said." I nod and wrap her closely in one last hug. Taking a deep breath, I whisper in her ear "I'm so sorry," as I reach for my wand.

_"Obliviate!"_


	2. Hermione I

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit._

**Hermione I**

_I'll kill him._ The thought murmurs constantly, like a running brook at the bottom levels of my consciousness, as I go through my day. Never have I been so grateful for my ability to multitask, as I faithfully go through the motions of being who people expect me to be: raising my hand in class, writing essays that reflect my reading of all footnotes and everything _they_ reference, nagging Harry and Ron to do their studying, and tuning out their lame Quidditch talk at meals.

Trying to keep my eyes away from the staff table is a struggle. I know I must not draw any attention to myself, not show any unusual awareness of _him_. After all, I'm supposed to be his safely _Obliviated_ little play toy. I'm not supposed to know what he's done.

In a weird way, it would be less odious-though still unforgivable, of course-if it had been a sex thing. If he'd bent me over a desk and fucked me; sent me on my way with his essence inside me and a gap carved out of my memory. It's worse for me to look at his sneering face and remember doting on him like some sort of retro housewife, hugging him and admiring him and sleeping in his bed. My memories are incomplete and cloudy, but I get that much.

In bed at last after a day that drags on forever, I pull the curtains of my bed closed and allow my thoughts to come forward into the topmost level of my mind. Scenarios of revenge flit back and forth. The first one, which I've already discarded, is killing him outright. I've discarded it for three reasons: one, Severus Snape would not be the easiest person to kill. I could try it when we are alone together and his guard is down, but getting away with it scot-free would not be easy. I agree with the Poe character who said that a wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redressor. Whatever I do to this man will be done without harm to myself or my future.

The second reason-hopefully a temporary one-is that although I've managed a partial breaking of the _Obliviate_, I have not broken that other godsforsaken spell he's using on me. So Barbie Doll Hermione would never think of harming her precious Severus, which makes the _kill-him-when-his-guard-is-down_ plan a wash.

The third and most important reason is that a quick death is better than he deserves. One might think I'm being a little uncompassionate, given the snippets I remember about how messed up this guy is, but no. I don't care how bad his life is; he has no right to do this to me just because he's too dysfunctional to make friends.

I could forgive a lot of things, but not this: he has compromised my _mind_. My fortress, my only asset, my only hope of succeeding in this world. I'm okay looking these days, but not spectacularly pretty. I kind of suck at anything physical. I'm not charming or the kind of gifted diplomat who can rise in status by networking, and I'm living in a society where I'm despised by a significant portion of the population.

Intelligence. That's what I've got, and I'm not modest about it either. I have a mind that can do extraordinary things, and I'm just beginning to discover its potential. Snape has put that at risk-no matter how talented he is, _Obliviate_ carries a risk. Pulling my blankets tighter around myself, I shudder at the thought of me in St. Mungo's spell damage ward, or even just wandering this world dulled into average intelligence, my sharp edge forever lost.

Yes, he has done the unforgivable. Most insultingly, and also deserving of redress, he has underestimated Hermione Granger. Did he really think that the smartest witch he's met in a long time would not value her mind above all and take steps to protect it? Did he really think that I'd listen to Harry's tales about his disastrous Occlumency lessons and not be fascinated by the subject? Did he really not consider that I'd be sure to run to the Restricted Section of the library and dive into studying the arts of the mind?

Does he really not understand what it is to be the best-known and most hated Mudblood in a school with junior Death Eaters around? How many times Malfoy and his cronies would have raped and _Obliviated_ me by now if I didn't guard myself with protective spells and strategies far beyond my years?

Severus Snape is going to find out how grievously he has underestimated me. I haven't worked out all of the plan yet, oh no. A work of art should never be rushed. Like the good student I am, I will make my first step the collection of data. His transgressions will be properly documented, ready to be used as I see fit. I'll need a Pensieve; memories are best when stored as fresh as possible. It will help me sort out the cloudy parts, as well as prepare evidence. Getting the use of one from Dumbledore shouldn't be too hard; I'll just come up with some unthreatening project to explain my need for it. Nothing could be more in character than Hermione Granger wanting extra work, after all.

But right now I know I have to get some sleep, so I force myself to begin my meditative exercises, emptying my mind and slowing my breathing. All of my Occlumency practice has helped me be excellent at this, and I'll need every bit of my skill in case Snape decides to try a stroll through the mind he thinks is his personal playground. Soon I am drifting into sleep, secure in the knowledge that I have a direction and I am not a victim.

The morning brings the typical chatter and disorganization from my fellow Gryffindors, and I have to focus on being polite and not making my detachment too obvious. Dressing in my school uniform feels, as usual, like donning armor. Or a costume for the stage, but I like the armor idea better. Down in the Great Hall, I slide into my usual seat by Harry and Ron. Ron, naturally, has his face buried in breakfast, so I only have to worry about Harry. His eyes linger just a bit too long on my face, perhaps noting some shadows under my eyes or tension in my jaw.

"Are you okay, Hermione? You look tense." I smile at him and try to look more relaxed. "I'm fine, Harry...you know me, stayed up too late reading in bed. I can't believe the N.E.W.T.S. are only six months away!" He rolls his eyes, comfortably distracted by the familiar topic. "Hermione, we've been through this. You could sit your exams this instant and score all Outstandings. Admit it, you could have done the same thing two years ago."

I put on my sheepish look. "The truth is, Harry, there are Outstandings and _Outstandings_...and I'm planning to break some records." _Especially the ones held by a certain dark-haired bastard. _"Enough about that...did you do all of the Potions reading last night? We're brewing the Wit-Sharpening Potion today, and it can be tricky. I don't want any mistakes that will land us in detention."

Harry grins wryly at me. "I read it, Hermione-but let's be realistic. Snape has it in for you lately. He'll find an excuse, you can count on it. Personally, I think he just likes having the free labor from someone who can be trusted to brew the basic infirmary potions." I nod, pleased that I came up with such a plausible explanation for what I've been doing there-and then it hits me.

Harry is right. Snape will find a way. He will have me in his quarters tonight, and if I want my plan to succeed I have to walk in there like an obedient student. But this time, I'll be _aware_ of what he's going to do to me. I wonder what it will be like to be under that spell? Will I be screaming, repulsed, fighting to break the thrall, but observing myself do his will? Have I felt that way each time and been made to forget?

For a moment my courage falters, and I want to feign an illness and hide in the infirmary. But a welcome surge of anger helps to clean away the fear, and my spine stiffens. I am Hermione Granger...and I do not run away.


	3. Severus II

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit._

**Severus II**

"This setup distills the Ashwinder eggs more efficiently than we ever learned in class," Hermione notes. I smile in agreement and gesture to the next assemblage of equipment. "That's only the first step...look at this! I've done something nobody has ever done before. The distilled essence of Ashwinder is now being combined with the phoenix scale residue."

Hermione instinctively takes a step back from the bench. "You're kidding. That combination is so volatile! It could eat through anything, or blow the whole school up! How the hell are you keeping it stable? And why would you even think of doing this, let alone in Hogwarts?"

I lean down to kiss her forehead, careful not to touch her with my dragonhide gloves. Apparently even the _Benevolus_ spell can't completely eradicate her tendency to point out danger or error...nor would I want it to. "I know, but don't worry, my love. The wards on my lab are unspeakably strong...the strongest ones in the wizarding world. They could probably contain a nuclear explosion. I wouldn't endanger the school. As to why..."

Hesitating, I think fast. It would feel so good to tell someone, and her opinions would be useful...and after all, I'll be Obliviating her as usual. "As to why...well, basically, I'm going to kill the Dark Lord. Soon."

Silence.

She just cocks an eyebrow and does some thinking of her own. When she notices I'm getting uncomfortable with the quiet, she smiles at me and says, "I know you can succeed at anything you set out to do, Severus! I would love it to be soon. I want him dead; I want all of them dead so they can never hurt you again. But Severus...I should tell you; there are things you might not know that could impact this." There's a subtle tension in her body as she speaks, and I can tell something is struggling against the _Benevolus_.

"Let's take a break, Hermione. I'm a little tired and hungry." She follows me back into my chambers, falling for the obvious subject change as she never would if not bespelled. After tea and biscuits, and some lighter conversation during which she teases me about my mastery of wards and the "foolish wand waving" involved, I lead the subject back to my statement about killing Voldemort. "Hermione, are you worried about the prophecy?"

She looks relieved. "You already know about that? I wanted to tell you, but Harry had asked me to keep the secret, and I didn't know what to do..." she is cut off as I kneel in front of her and take her hands in mine. "Of course you wouldn't betray someone's trust. You're a loyal friend, Hermione; never feel guilty about that. But understand that I know all about it-including the Horcruxes." Her eyes widen. "But Severus...how can you kill him, then? Besides, if you try and fail, I can't bear to think of what he would do to you."

Laying a kiss on her hand, I look up into her concerned face. "Hermione, I promise I won't try it until I have all aspects of the plan worked out perfectly. But I have to try! People are dying. Not even Dumbledore knows how many; especially the Muggles being killed almost daily for entertainment. I see it at each meeting; sometimes I have to do it myself to maintain my role! I often manage to give them a quicker death, but that's not good enough. Dumbledore doesn't understand, and he doesn't want to. His faith in his own interpretation of that damned prophecy has closed his mind."

She takes a deep breath, her somewhat blind trust in Dumbledore warring with the drive to say, do, _be_ whatever I most need. "Then tell me what you think, my love. I'm listening."

I fight off a wash of feeling at the perfection of that response. "All right, we know that while any Horcrux still exists Voldemort can't die completely, right? A piece of his spirit will linger." She nods. "That's what happened when his spell rebounded from Potter; a piece of him existed with no body until, many years later, he managed to possess Quirell and begin his journey back." She nods acknowledgement again. "Now, here's the important thing, Hermione. During those years, _was he killing anyone?_"

"Well, no. He wasn't doing much until about five years ago..." she trails off as the light dawns. I grin, relieved; someone understands. I knew she would. Gods, I love your logical mind, know-it-all. I love...

"You've got it, Hermione. What makes more sense...going on a dangerous, uncertain scavenger hunt for months or years while Voldemort wreaks havoc...or killing him well enough to make him powerless and _then_ cleaning up the Horcruxes? For all we know, the prophecy just means Potter will be instrumental in finding or defeating those." The expression on her face as she looks down at me is one I want to remember in my last moments. "Severus, I can't believe I didn't think of that. This means he can be stopped...Harry can be safe! He doesn't have to do some epic duel with Voldemort." She cradles my face in her hands and leans to kiss my cheek. "Thank you, my love. You've given me hope. You've done so much for all of us."

Guilt constricts my throat even as I bask in her praise, but I don't have long to dwell on it. Hermione gently pushes me back to my own chair, draws her legs up under her, and fixes me with the alert stare I know so well from class. "Now, let's hear about this crazy potion of yours."

So I explain everything. I spill it out gladly, reveling in her interest and her responsiveness. I tell her how for years I've been studying Muggle biochemistry, learning things no other potions master would think worthy of exploring. How it taught me ways of using hydrophobic molecules to encapsulate other molecules, and the experiments that led to creating "impossible" potions that remain stable. How I have, while hiding my research and pretending my only roles were disgruntled teacher and Dumbledore's spy, created a new field of combining potions and spells.

"The beauty of it is that I don't have to get the potion into Voldemort himself...his level of magic might be able to detect it in any potion he drinks. Too uncertain. What I have to do is slip the potion to one of the senior Death Eaters, away from the meetings, and use a spell to trigger the reaction at the right time. Lucius almost always stands close to him during meetings, as does Bellatrix. And if I can't get it into any of them, I could always drink it myself..."

I'm abruptly smothered in warm woman, as Hermione throws herself into my lap and wraps her arms around me fiercely. "Severus, you will do no such thing! You will _not_. Promise me, promise me right now, do you hear me? You will not throw yourself away. You're going to live, and heal, and change the fucking world with your research. The name of Severus Snape will be remembered as the slayer of Voldemort _and_ the pioneer of a new era in potions. That is what is going to happen."

Adjusting her weight, I rock her softly in my arms, murmuring reassurances that calm her for the moment. We drift into silence, and I let myself be comforted by the warmth of her flesh against mine, the softness of her hair against my chin. I let myself believe that I'll be wept over, or even that there might be something waiting for me other than the very special potion I have prepared for myself, in case I do survive. I doubt I'll be needed for the Horcrux hunt, and that could go on for years. No, my "reward" waits in its warded box on a lab shelf, visible to me each day as I work. Reminding me that it won't be long now before my unforgivable acts are drowned in blackness at last.


	4. Hermione II

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit._

**Hermione II**

I pull my wand tip away from my temple and transfer the cloudy silver strand to the next vial. Using my favorite ball point pen (_Quills? Really? Only in class, ever since I invented that charm to make any writing look like the product of a quill_) I label it with date and time as usual and place it in the mahogany cabinet the Room of Requirement has thoughtfully provided.

Returning to my cozy chair by the fire, I take a sip of tea and try to relax. I don't feel like reviewing this memory in depth today-it's nothing exciting, anyway. Other than hearing about the progress of Snape's plan to take down Voldemort, not much is happening. My plan to collect memories of him doing reprehensible sexual things to me is still a big fizzle. It's just more cuddling, more pep talks and more listening to his seemingly endless angst. Has the guy ever had a healthy relationship of any kind whatsoever?

I retreated to this room often during the first week after Snape's big revelation. I needed to think about what I'd heard; to decide whether to tell Dumbledore, or maybe Harry. I've decided now to keep the secret. People think I have too much respect for people in authority; well, it's not true in matters that really count. Not since I watched Dumbledore, the Ministry and even my dear friend the Boy-Who-Lived screw up in various ways. If I'm ever tempted to stop thinking for myself, all I have to do is look into the mirror at the long, ridged scar left across my chest by Dolohov's curse last year. One good _Stupefy_ at Harry when persuasion failed, and so much pain and death could have been avoided.

Anyway, I have decided that the possibility of success is worth the risk of losing Snape as a spy. If he dies during his attempt, I'm willing to forgo the balance of my vengeance. Heck, if his death saves Harry's life by making Voldemort helpless, I might even keep quiet and let him be remembered as something besides a complete git. If he lives, on the other hand...

Gods, I never want to leave this room. I don't want to go back downstairs, I don't want to listen to the insipid chatter in the dining hall, and I don't want to go to the bloody dungeons. The nights with Snape are getting harder, because I'm almost completely unaffected by the _Obliviate_ now. Last night, I even felt the influence of the _Benevolus_ falter once. We were lying in his bed, and the spell was compelling me to cuddle against him and press affectionate little kisses against his chest as I began to soothe him to sleep...and I think I resisted. My motions toward him got a little jerky and halting; fortunately he was already too sleepy to notice.

What am I going to do if I learn to resist more? It's become clear to me that Snape is at the thin edge of total breakdown-without Barbie Doll Hermione's affection and comfort he's not going to make it long enough to finish his project, let alone have the courage to carry his plan through. If I gain the power of choice, I'll have to choose whether to go on pretending. What would that feel like, and could I ever scrub the residue of Snape off of me if I embrace him willingly?

Draining my cup, I stare into the flames and retreat behind my shields, plunging into the cool and clear pool at the center of my mind. _Of course I can_, comes the serene answer. _I am Hermione Granger, and I do what needs to be done. Shame is a construct._

By the time I emerge, it's suppertime. I eat lightly in the Great Hall, as usual, because it's not uncommon for me to share a meal with Snape while under the spell. Snape's not at the staff table tonight. He could be brewing, or just sulking...or it's possible he's been summoned. Maybe I'm off the hook tonight.

I enter the classroom at eight to find it empty. I wait a few minutes to be sure, and I'm just turning back toward the door when I hear a moan from the direction of Snape's quarters.

What would normal, good-student Hermione do? She'd try to help, of course. I go and knock on the closed door. "Professor? Professor Snape? Are you all right?" No answer. I try the door; locked of course. Another moan, kind of stifled, and then the door seems to shimmer. I try it again, and it swings open. My mind catalogues the scene rapidly-Snape is crumpled at the foot of one chair, in a spreading pool of blood, wand dangling from his fingers. Shit.

I'm on the floor beside him, casting diagnostic charms and looking for obvious sources of the bleeding, when I see his wand move and hear him whisper the spell-are you kidding me? and then _Oh gods, Severus is hurt, hold on love-_ "It'll be all right, love, hold on, you'll be all right."

_I have to save him, he must not die; I can't bear it if he dies._ I get his shirt off and find the major wound in his right side; looks like a slicing hex of some kind. It's the only place that produces more blood when I press on it, at least. But it's almost indistinguishable in the tapestry of fresh cuts, burns and bruising that marks his skin. _Breathe, Hermione, you can do this; he's going to be all right._

I've seen him take potions from the cabinet near his bed. "_Accio_ Blood-Replenishing Potion!" Nothing. "Severus! Hold on! I have to go get help..." and I choke on the words. He's told me often that he doesn't want Dumbledore to know exactly what he goes through. I can't betray his trust! But he might die if I don't! What am I going to do? "Severus! Severus! Can you drop the wards on your cabinet?" He just groans.

Something weird is happening inside my head, like a maths problem with a contradictory solution: _How can I help him the most? Well, I can't let him die. So I need to disobey him and call someone in. But it isn't __kind__ to go against what he wants. But I have to...and an annoyed voice in my head, running in the background, is talking about Asimov's robots and how I'm caught between First Law and Second Law, which should be no dilemma at all because First Law comes first for a reason, and _**_how pathetic is it that I'm in the role of a fucking ROBOT and Snape has no business dying before he's done what he said he would do so get off your ass and save him whether he likes it or not, do it NOW you dumb bimbo do it NOW right NOW-_**

It feels like a giant rubber band snapping in my head.

_I'm_ in charge again, but there's no time to celebrate. Snape's completely unconscious now. My brain drops into emergency mode, forking down alternate paths at speed. I find the Floo Powder and call for Madame Pomfrey, begging her to tell nobody. She's there within the minute. As she begins to work on him I start mentally compiling a list of what I'll require.

Half an hour later, I stand beside Madame Pomfrey as she makes a final pass with her wand. Snape, who's been given so many potions he should slosh when he moves, is sleeping quietly in his bed; most of his visible wounds are healed. It was close, very close. I hadn't known there was so much internal bleeding, and thinking about what must have caused it makes a small voice in my head moan with distress and launch into another monologue of endearments. The _Benevolus _is still active, it seems, although the _persona_ it creates is now reduced to a secondary role.

"Now, Miss Granger," Madame Pomfrey says sternly, "I did as you asked and came here without telling anyone, and I want to know why on earth that was necessary!" I nod. "Oh, Madame Pomfrey, thank you so much, we can go to Professor Dumbledore now and he'll explain everything-" and I gasp in seeming pain and double over. It's ridiculously easy to hit her with a _Stupefy_ while she examines me. Propping her comfortably, I go to the classroom and start arranging ingredients.

I despise memory charms, obviously, but this one needs to be done. Dumbledore would never let Snape go back once his nose gets rubbed in the truth, and I've invested too much in this plan to quit now. The _Obliviate_ will cause Poppy less disorientation if, rather than having an empty space in her memory, she has a logical recollection involving some true elements. So I set the stage for the minor "potions accident" she came and treated Snape for, fix the fully detailed image in my memory, and transfer it to hers after I remove the stunner. Thanking her profusely, I tiptoe out to the corridor with her and pretend to return to Gryffindor tower.

Back at Snape's bedside, I pull up a chair and settle down to watch for any signs of trouble. In the silence, I can listen to BDH's constant patter in my head. I suppose it will be useful when he's up and running again, because her impulses can be used as guidelines. I'll need them, because the time I have dreaded is here.

As if in response to that thought, Snape turns his head and mumbles something. _Touch him, talk to him, reassure him, tell him you love him,_ calls BDH. And-irrevocably crossing that line-I do.


	5. Severus III

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit._

**Severus III**

"Really now, Hermione, you should know better," I murmur. "The potions lab has to be in the _basement_ of the house, at least. Think of my reputation." She chuckles. "Right. Dungeon bat. But what about me? I work better with some natural light-and before you say it, I know some potions need the dark, but hello, _magic_. I think we're capable of blocking windows when we need to, but we can't reproduce the natural quality of outside light."

I shift my body slightly in bed and try to conceal the ache any movement still brings. She doesn't buy it, though, and clucks disapprovingly from her chair. "Severus, you are such a child sometimes. You haven't taken the potion Poppy ordered this morning, have you? Well, you're taking it right now." There's no escape-it's one potion, one full glass of water and one short massage later (oh, the horror) before we get back to our fantasy argument. It isn't long before I capitulate.

"All right, love," I say. "I want you to be the happiest Potions Mistress in the world. An upper floor it is, and I'll get used to it eventually. But I want some say in the decoration of the rest of the house-no lace, no floral patterns and a minimum of Potter/Weasley portraits on the wall!" She looks insulted.

We've been playing this little game off and on for several days. When I first woke up from the latest visit to the Dark Lord, she was there with me and heard a lot of incoherent rambling. Apparently I, in between the other things I shudder to remember saying, talked about my fantasies of a future with her. When I seemed depressed and sad as I started to mend, she brought up the subject to cheer me. So we have this wonderful imaginary house in the country, located far enough away from the nearest wizarding village to let Hermione have a working computer. We run a business together, making and selling rare potions, but it leaves plenty of time for research. Our library, of course, is the envy of all Britain.

"Severus...we wouldn't spend _all_ of our time in the lab, would we?" Her teasing tone makes the meaning clear, and she looks down shyly at the book in her lap. I'm taken aback by the question; it's not like her to be flirtatious. "Well, I..." I stammer. Trying to come up with an answer opens doors that I try to keep closed. Reminding myself that the _Obliviate_ will fix anything that goes wrong, I go with the truth.

"Hermione Granger, we would do anything-anything at all-that pleases you. Nothing would make me happier than to be with you in every way two people can be together, if the time were right." "Then you do want me, _that_ way?" she asks, looking relieved. I reach out for her hand, and she meets me halfway. "How can you ask me that? Even the thought is almost more than I can contain."

There's silence for a couple of minutes, while I concentrate on the feeling of her hand in mine and try to block out thoughts of her hands elsewhere. "How will we know when the time is right?" she asks finally. "Life's so uncertain. Maybe we should...before you make your attempt..."

_"_**_No!"_** She starts at the vehemence in my voice, and I soften it. "Absolutely not, Hermione. You are too young yet, and still a student..." _and you aren't really willing. I'm damned for what I have done to you, but I won't add physical rape to the list. _"We will have time to think of that after the Dark Lord is dead, and you've graduated." _I wish that were true._

"Would you read some more? I think I could take a nap," I say to change the subject. She opens the book again and starts the next poem. We've been working our way through T.S. Eliot, and as I listen to her soft voice recite "Ash Wednesday" my white lie becomes truth. I'm growing sleepy, and as I begin to fall away from consciousness her face blurs into a gentle glow, blending its beauty with the words.

_...Because of the goodness of this Lady, and because_

_She honours the Virgin in meditation,_

_We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled _

_Proffer my deeds to oblivion..._

Two days later, I am well enough to roam the halls again. The dearly purchased respite from my role makes me more aware of the toll it takes. Long before midday, a headache dances around my temples in defiance of any potion. I'm making my way up to Albus's office when I hear a whisper behind me and turn just in time to see Draco slip into one of the unused classrooms, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. What is that little prat up to now?

Through the door, I can hear everything-and what I hear makes me instantly stiffen with rage. Options whirl through my head, the need to maintain my cover fighting with the screaming need to protect Hermione. I whisper a spell to let me see through the door; Hermione stands, wand in hand, at the far end of the room. It looks as if she was practicing spellwork. "Go away, Malfoy," she says in a bored tone. "I'm not interested in hearing the same old insults." Draco laughs. "What if I don't want to talk, Granger? What if I want to give you a little sample of what's in store for Mudblood girls when we return to the old ways?"

_She has her wand,_ I tell myself. _She'll be fine._ I see Crabbe and Goyle fan out, approaching the edges of her line of sight as Draco remains in front of her. They're good, I'll give them that-Draco casts an _Incarcerous_ at the precise moment Crabbe and Goyle lunge to grab at her from each side. Hermione blocks Draco's curse easily, but it gives the two others time to seize her by the arms. _That's it._ I have my hand on the door, about to burst through, when I see something that changes my mind.

A blue-white light outlines Hermione's body, and a sizzling snap brings cries of pain from the two goons as they're thrown halfway across the room. Crashing to the stone floor, they curl up and moan in pain. Draco stands open-mouthed, but not for long-Hermione takes advantage of his shock to hit him with a _Stupefy_. Stepping over him, she heads for the door, and I hastily step to one side and Disillusion myself.

"The pain will be gone in a few minutes," she says to the two still conscious. "Well, hours, actually. And tell Sleeping Beauty that's not the only obscure hex I know."

Awash in relief and admiration, I watch her stride down the hallway. Brightest witch of her age, indeed. Where in the world did she manage to learn the _Corpus Fulminata_ spell? I want to follow her, comfort her, hold her in my arms tightly enough to reassure me that she is really safe. And I'm enraged anew by her calm demeanor, even when she thinks she's alone in the corridor-it has to mean that today isn't the first time this has happened to her. I didn't know Draco had progressed beyond public insults and confrontations, and I'm already formulating plans about how I can believably warn him off or get Lucius to do so. After all, Draco winding up in Azkaban or in hiding isn't in the Dark Lord's best interests.

These plans comfort me a little, but my mind keeps wandering down dark paths. I imagine Hermione in their clutches, unsuccessful at escaping their hold. I imagine a future of the Death Eaters victorious, and Hermione being among those spared for use rather than the death she might prefer. I would rather die than witness that. I hope to die trying to prevent it. But what if I fail?

When I am finally reunited with my Hermione in the privacy of my quarters, I can't wait to hold her close. As soon as the spell takes hold, I lift her in my arms, carry her to my bed and stretch out next to her, gathering her close and rocking her to and fro like a child's doll. We fall into a comfortable silence, and I begin to feel calmer as the minutes tick by. "Hermione?" I say at last. She snuggles a little closer in acknowledgement. "Do you ever think about what might happen if we lose the war?"

"Of course I've thought about it, Severus," she replies quietly. "I just try not to dwell on it. Obviously it isn't a pretty picture for people like me." I tangle my fingers in her soft hair, thinking about how to say what I need to say. "Whatever you are thinking, my love, it will be at least that bad, and probably worse. Even if you were not obviously allied with Potter, your blood combined with your achievements would make you a target. But being who you are would make you a prized trophy. You could be singled out for an especially slow and agonizing death, or you could be kept as a slave by a high-ranking Death Eater...and I don't mean the kind of slave that scrubs floors. There's a small possibility that I would survive our defeat and still have maintained my cover...then I could protect you by asking to have you for my own. But it isn't likely."

She strokes my chest gently, trying to soothe the tension my own words are creating. "I'm not afraid, you know. Not for myself. I just don't want to see the people I love tortured. And, well, there are ways to end it if things are truly unbearable, right?" "Not always, Hermione. There are spells and bonds that can prevent it, and the Death Eaters know how to keep captives alive for more fun. I can't stand the thought of you suffering, and having no choice. I can give you one."

"How?" She is intrigued. "A charm, one I invented. Its effect is instant and painless-and it can be triggered with a single word. But I will only activate it for you if you promise me something."

I turn slightly so that I can look directly into her eyes. "You have to promise me that you will only use it in utmost necessity. Only if it's truly the end for you, and you want to meet it quickly. That you won't use it out of shame, or despair. You have to promise me that if you do end up a slave or concubine to someone like Lucius you will live, and endure, and bide your time."

I run my fingers along the soft skin of her arm. "Remember what you always say to me, about the rape I have to live with? Nothing can taint you, Hermione, nothing can take away the beauty of what you are. If you have to pretend to go along with a role you despise, if you have to use sex to survive, none of it will ever be a cause for shame. And if I'm seeing it from wherever my soul has gone, I will feel nothing but love and admiration for you. Promise me, Hermione. Promise me you will go on as long as there's a shred of hope."

She is silent for a long time, and I quietly jeer at myself for thinking that this conversation, one that will be erased from Hermione's memory, will make a difference. The spell will be there for her, though-she just won't remember exactly how she learned it. And if I should die before the climax of the war, she will be guided to my Pensieve memories of our time together and see this night.

Sighing against my chest, she says, "I promise, Severus. But let's try not to let it come to that." "We will, Hermione." I guide her up to a sitting position and reach for my wand. The incantation is a long one, sung and chanted, and she stiffens a little as she feels the magic settling through her barriers and establishing itself inside her. "It's done now."

"What if I say the word by accident? Or someone else says it?" I shake my head. "It won't kill unless it senses your intent. You have to pull magic from your core while you are saying it, and _want_ it to work. Your word is _Masada_."

She frowns. "That sounds familiar. Does it mean something?" "A bit of Muggle history. Masada was a fortress in what is now Israel, and a common story goes that nearly a thousand Jews chose to take their lives at the end of a long siege by the Roman Empire. They knew the Empire was angered by the long resistance, and there would be no mercy. So they chose to deny the Romans their satisfaction."

"I never thought you would be one to study Muggle History," she comments. I cock an eyebrow at her. "Well, you didn't know me very well-besides, it's hardly a frivolous pursuit. The Dark Lord and purebloods in general are bloody fools to ignore the Muggle world. It's not a separate planet-we're on it, we're outnumbered, and technology is catching up. No matter how much people dig their heels in, no matter who wins this war, change is coming. I give the wizarding world less than a century if we don't figure out a way to integrate."

She gives me an approving squeeze. "I couldn't agree more. How about we start with getting rid of that condescending word? There's just no way to convince the wizarding world to treat nonmagic people with respect if they are still known by a name that sounds like a character from the Muppet Show." She laughs at my blank look, then goes on, "Or maybe we should give purebloods a taste of their own medicine, and let them see what it's like to have a silly name."

"What should we call them?" She ponders for a minute, then chortles delightedly. "I have it! We'll call them Twizzles."

_"__Twizzles?"_

"Yes, it's perfect! First, it's the name of a Muggle candy, so it's associated with something silly. Second, it has the same length and rhythm as Muggle. It will be great. Think of it-think of the Muggle world and the Twizzle world. Twizzle history, Twizzle customs. Think of Draco Malfoy being a Twizzle. If people hate it enough, maybe it will get through their head that Muggle is pretty insulting too."

"I think you're overestimating people's ability to admit they are wrong." We continue the light banter for some time, decompressing from the tense material earlier, and when we settle down to sleep I can almost believe that there will be many more nights of laughing together.


	6. Hermione III

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work __produces no profit._

**Hermione III**

_He loves me. _

The Great Hall feels even more surreal than usual. My eyes, as always, flick to the staff table between spoonfuls of my porridge, noting his presence and his dour expression. But today, I'm struggling to cling to my normal disdain. Today, this new conviction roils around in my consciousness and makes me uneasy about everything. Snape's done a terrible thing. Snape's used me, taken advantage of his position of power, and violated my mind. He deserves nothing, nothing but my hate.

_He loves me. Beside his weird obsession, love exists._

It shouldn't matter...it's just that I am not used to anyone feeling that way about me. Sure, my parents love me-in spite of what I am and how I've complicated their lives. Harry and Ron love me too, but they don't know me. They make use of my odd mind, but in the end they love me in spite of my intelligence, not because of it. I've never had someone see my mind, my strong will and my magical power as a precious gift. I've never had someone urge me to do the hard or even ruthless things, rather than act like the good girl I am supposed to be. I've never had someone respect me enough to give me a choice like _Masada._

Acting the role the _Benevolus_ spell has created must be affecting me more than I think. Being consciously kind to him, reading him poetry, getting into bantering arguments and joking around can't help but have an effect. My Mum once read me a fairy tale about a wicked, ugly prince who wanted to gain power by marrying the lovely and good princess of the neighboring kingdom. He got an artisan to make him a handsome mask, and for a year and a day he wooed the princess...of course, to do so he had to behave and speak like a good man the princess would want. It changed him, and he fell in love with her, and just before the wedding he decided to confess all. When he removed his mask for his fiancee, they found that his real face now matched the beautiful mask he had worn...

Am I starting to hate Snape less? If I go on like this, will I start to care about him? _No!_ No, I will not, I will NOT forgive him for what he did, it's unthinkable. The familiar cold flame of anger licks at me again, and I am comforted by the patterns of logic, balance and my calculated use of Snape. He will atone, one way or the other; I will do what is necessary to make it happen, and then I will move on and be cleansed of him forever. That's all there is to it.

_The lady doth protest too much, methinks._ With a huff, I toss my spoon into the bowl and gather my books; right now, it's time to move on the library. Then I glance up, and a flicker of movement over at the Slytherin table ruins my brisk focus. Malfoy's smirking in my direction, his gray eyes refusing to remember the last smacking down I gave him. That's nothing new-what has caught my eye is Pansy Parkinson, cuddled up to him as she often is, obviously wheedling him for something. For some reason, I can't take my eyes away from her face. I always thought she wanted Malfoy, but today I can see her calculation, her underlying contempt for him and her artful use of her body and voice. I can see how much she hates him. A wave of nausea ripples through me, and I go quickly out of the Hall.

Alone, I have to be alone...my steps take me to the Room of Requirement, where none will see what must be a most uncharacteristic expression. When I enter, I'm greeted by a sight quite different from my usual cozy study...a bare white room, adorned only with several black towels next to a large porcelain basin whose purpose is obvious. Just in time, too, because the nausea latches onto me and I'm on my knees above the cold ceramic. Some wretched minutes later, I'm stretched out on the cool floor, head pillowed on an unused towel as I try to face what has me so disturbed.

I am _not_ like Pansy Parkinson.

The calculating look on her face looks _nothing_ like the one on mine when I think about my plans. Her false caresses given to Malfoy are nothing like the ones I give to Snape. She's shallow and spoiled, doing what she does for selfish reasons. I'm doing what I do because-well, for revenge at first, now also because I think the plan to kill Voldemort has a chance. Both worthy causes, right?

I try to build up my familiar walls. I try to sink into the cool waters of my inner mental sanctum, but something is still wrong. My mind keeps returning more questions instead of certainty.

_How do you know why Parkinson does what she does? Maybe she thinks she has a good reason too. For all you know, she could face terrible punishment if she fails to hold onto Malfoy, given how the pureblood families bargain for power with marriage._

_Is revenge really a worthy cause? Haven't many people turned to the Dark via a path that began with seeking vengeance?_

_What will your deception really cost you? Do you really think you can go back to the way you were? Aren't you already changing; thinking more harshly about everyone? When was the last time you thought about Harry, or your family, or did something nice because you wanted to?_

_Does what Snape did make it right for you to use him and deceive him, without the excuse of the dysfunction and the overwhelming need that drives him?_

_What's happened to you, Hermione Granger?_

I find the deep waters of my mind, but they do not refresh me, and it's a very long afternoon. Hours later, I am still lying on the cool floor, staring up at the blank white ceiling the Room produced. I cleaned the basin, but other than that I haven't done anything but think. How kind the Room has been to me today, giving me this room with nothing in it but me. Nothing to distract me, and nowhere to hide from the hard decisions.

The barrier of hate and anger has been lowered enough for me to feel the rest of myself again, and it hurts. My righteous wrath shielded me from the humiliation I felt at knowing I'd been used, and gave me a direction-and, truth be told, I can't judge myself too harshly. I still believe that what happened to me was a kind of rape, and one wouldn't expect a rape victim to forgive her rapist easily, if ever.

But I was raised with love; imperfect as my parents were, they taught me that love and kindness matter. They raised me to believe that there are things in this world that go beyond logic, and even though I have had to become harder to survive I still treasure that core of idealism. I don't want to give it up, especially through deliberate action on my part.

Whether or not I ever find any forgiveness for Snape; whether or not I should even try, is irrelevant. I just know I can't go on this way. Continuing to become the person I've seen today will cost me too much of my soul. But what am I going to do? One by one, I list several possible courses of action:

I could decide that punishing Snape is what matters most, and do it honestly. Turn him in and let the Ministry take over-or just confront him with the truth! Let's face it, when I look at him honestly I know that his guilt is beyond intense. If he finds out I know the truth, I'd probably have to talk him down from a ledge. He'd do anything I wanted; accept any torture or death I gave him. He'd cooperate in a plan to make it look like an accident! His life is in my hands any time I want it.

I could decide that the plan to take down Voldemort matters more, and continue to work with Snape on it. But the only way I can do this is if I find a way to do it honestly and without hate. If I can find _something_ in me capable of feeling any kindness or sympathy for him, and work with him as an ally, I won't need to hate myself even if I am still playing a role. The role will have enough truth in it to keep my soul from corroding.

I could decide to do neither, and just come up with a way to cut the connection between us. I could leave Hogwarts, come down with an extended illness...no, that's not for me unless absolutely necessary. I have to see this thing through.

My bones are beginning to ache from the hard surface, and I'm hungry. Turning to my side, I review the first option in depth. _The look on Snape's face when he is accused. The sight of him being led away by Aurors. The rage of my friends, the wrath of parents, a trial...or else private justice; Snape in pain, humiliated, dying as I look on with a stern expression. The apologies he'd make, and the way I'd throw them back in his face._

I don't want that. I actually don't. There needs to be a reckoning between us someday, and I need to make sure he can never do anything like this to anyone again...but it no longer gives me pleasure to think of him dead or imprisoned.

That leaves my second idea. I don't know if it is possible yet, but there's only one way to find out. I need data. Real, unbiased data, not filtered by my agenda. I'll look back at the Pensieve memories I've gathered, focusing on understanding Snape rather than gathering evidence against him. I'll spend some time with him without actively fighting any positive reaction, and allow myself to notice anything I like or identify with. I'll find out more about who he is, what he has done and what's happened to him...and if I still can't do anything but despise him, I'll end this farce.

_He loves me _pops into my mind again...and I scramble to my feet, bumping my knee painfully and almost slipping on the hard floor. He's a master Occlumens...but he loves me. I have an advantage, and I have a very old book about the effects of intimate relationships on Legilimency. I am probably one of the only people other than Voldemort who stand a chance of getting into Severus Snape's thoughts.

That's what I will do. I will read him; I'll know him with no possibility of doubt or deceit. Then I will decide.


	7. Severus IV

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit._

**Severus IV**

**_"Are you fucking kidding me, Albus?"_**

It's not the first time I've been enraged with him, and I'm sure it won't be the last-but this time is different. He pushed me to the edge when he advised me to cooperate in the plan to kill him, and again when he made me promise to do it myself. Now, with this revelation that Potter is supposed to die and that Albus has been planning it all along, I feel myself falling over that edge. My thoughts race, toppling and reorganizing my conceptions of who and what this man Albus Dumbledore is.

I'd leaned forward in my chair, gripping its arms fiercely, and now I surge to my feet and begin pacing his office as if the stomp of my boots had some power to crush what he was saying. "I can't believe this. You've lost your mind, Albus. For years you've been scheming and planning around that godsforsaken prophecy, not telling anyone, and then about this Horcrux thing. Did it ever occur to you that your assumptions might be false? You had one of the greatest scientists in the wizarding world on your team. I could have been spending these years trying to find a way to separate the Horcrux from Potter without killing him. But no, you had to cling to the elegant, poetic idea you came up with."

Albus sighs and sips his tea. "I know you're upset, Severus. You vowed to protect Lily's son, and the knowledge that I've been-to put it as you did-"raising him like a pig for slaughter" must be a dreadful shock. But I hope you can see that Lily fought against the Dark as much as we do. She'd want Voldemort defeated, and I think she'd be proud that her son is going to be instrumental in it. His name will be honored forever, and he will be with her beyond the Veil..."

Whirling to face him, I slash through his sentence with the coldest voice I've ever used in his presence. "Fuck your rueful sighs, Albus, and don't you dare use Lily's name that way. If Lily were here she'd kick your ass so hard there'd be pieces in the Channel. She'd rip out your liver and feed it to the Gringotts dragons. Then she'd follow you beyond the Veil and spend eternity making sure you know how asinine you've been."

I'm pleased to see Albus look a bit shaken at my tone, not to mention the fact that the instruments on his shelves have begun to vibrate with the magic leaking out of me. Of course, he doesn't take long to recover and go through what I, with these altered eyes, am starting to see as his familiar manipulation: the world-weary sigh, the droop of his shoulders, the sad expression and the impression that he's suddenly feeling his age. "I've made mistakes, Severus," he says quietly. "We both have. We've done awful things in the name of the Greater Good. Things others could never understand; things the Wizarding World would revile us for. Things they wouldn't forgive, because they couldn't comprehend the dire need that drove us. But we do them because we must." He pauses delicately. "Even young Miss Granger would agree, don't you think?"

Silence.

And in that silence, the world completes its alteration.

Dumbledore's Pensieve explodes. Other things fall off of the shaking shelves. The teapot shatters and he hastily draws back to avoid being scalded. Lightning flickers, and two of the wall lamps catch fire. I stand unmoving as he puts out the fires and repairs the damage, and although I've now managed to pull in the magic a black and red aura still surrounds me. I watch him; I see nothing else in the world as he attains a semblance of calm and reseats himself.

"Now, Severus..."

"Shut up." _He knew. He knew the abomination I've been committing upon Hermione, his student, and he let it go on._ Using her as a tool for his fucking Greater Good, just like he's used me and Potter and everyone else. My rage at learning about Potter pales now; this new rage is cold, and stark, and lonely from the shattering of a bond.

Albus Dumbledore has just set me free.

He expected me to be overwhelmed with shame and shock for longer, and I manage to catch him off guard with a _Stupefy_. He's probably the most powerful offensive wizard in the world, but he's become overconfident about his personal wards. He just doesn't expect attack. He certainly didn't expect his little "surprise" to empower me; to turn me into the man he's underestimated for two decades.

My mind is so clear. My list of actions seem so obvious; I've never felt so certain of anything before. I carry Albus to his bed, settling him comfortably and pouring a dose of Dreamless Sleep down his throat before I cancel the _Stupefy_. He'll be out for eight hours. I plan to be finished in six, to be safe. Now that I have time to breathe, I sit down and take a few moments to calm myself. I don't want to do this next step with hatred in my heart. This man's been more like a father to me than my own father was, after all. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Albus," I say. "I know you would have preferred something more dramatic, and would have liked to have a little more time to settle your affairs. But if I delay, you'll keep me from telling anyone the truth, and this thing has to stop. I know you too well now to think I could sway you..." I take his black, withered hand in my own. Reaching into one of my many robe pockets, I withdraw a potion that will serve my purpose. Gently, I dab a few drops onto his lips and watch the moisture dry.

"You'll wake up, and wonder where I've gone, but Potter will distract you for long enough, Albus...and the next time you drink any warm liquid you'll close your eyes and fall asleep. It'll be painless, I promise, and you'll have died by my hand so the Unbreakable Vow will be satisfied. No one will be able to detect anything, but Voldemort will know it was me, and he'll be satisfied...and I have a plan to protect Draco, although I'm not sure he deserves it these days..." my throat is closing up; gods, how can I be so angry at him and still miss him already? But I can't linger here, so I force myself to turn away and leave.

My steps take me to Gryffindor tower, where I curtly order Potter to accompany me. He alternates between inane questions and sullenness all the way to my quarters, and by the time we are safely behind my wards I'm almost looking forward to turning his world over. He refuses tea, and eyes the comfortable chair I indicate with deep suspicion. Flinging myself into the other one, I gaze at him with familiar irritation, but my body language is obviously confusing him. "Mr. Potter, you're here to receive vital information about your role in defeating the Dark Lord. Dumbledore has been withholding it from you, and I have taken it upon myself to tell you the truth. So let's get one thing out of the way right now." I withdraw my wand slowly and smile sardonically to see his pointing at me in return. _"I, Severus Snape, do swear on my life and magic that what I say to Harry Potter in this room is the truth..."_

One hour later, during which I am profoundly grateful for the careful warding of my possessions against breakage, I send Potter away after extracting a promise of using the Room of Requirement to express his feelings until Dumbledore wakes. Potter doesn't know about the poison or Hermione, of course, but what he does know is enough.

The next stages of my plan are ticked off like boxes on an inventory checklist, as I try to carry them out as quickly and unemotionally as possible. Pack my things, especially my equipment and notes for the Dark Lord's potion. Catch Hermione alone, implement the _Benevolus_, tell her we need to leave and I'll explain later, sneak us beyond the Hogwarts gates and apparate to my Unplottable, Fidelius-protected and insanely heavily warded emergency residence. It's just a small, weathered cottage right now; I only did the most vital repairs. I never thought I'd come here until the Dark Lord was dead and/or I was found out as a spy, but here I am. Here _we_ are.

Now I've taken Hermione away from her friends, her studies...how can I justify this? Why didn't I leave her there; Dumbledore can't harm her anymore. I'm using her too; I need her help to finish this, and I also need to know she is safe. Hermione interrupts my dark thoughts. "All right, Severus, we are safe now, and you look like Death on a bad day. I'm going to fix us some sandwiches, and you are going to eat something, and then you're going to tell me what is going on." I don't resist; I have already decided what I am and am not ready to tell her. So when we are settled, and she's giving me that look, I say slowly, "Hermione, Albus is dying."

"What! How? What happened?"

I hush her. "He's known for a while that he didn't have long to live, Hermione...that curse that withered his hand is spreading, and there's nothing more we can do for it. We talked last night, and it's clear that it will be really soon." She looks at me, tears in her eyes. "Who else knows?" "No one, not even Minerva. He wanted it that way." I gather myself for the part I'm dreading, the twisted snippet of truth I will share. "He's been in more and more pain, and he asked me to help him...Hermione, I gave him something."

Her gaze is unreadable for a moment. "Poison?" "Yes. Painless, and I know it will probably happen in the next couple of days." She's silent for a minute or so, then seems to gather herself. She takes my hand in her warm one. "Oh, Severus, it must have been so hard for you to be alone with this knowledge. I wish you'd told me before...but there's one thing I don't understand. What does this have to do with us having to leave Hogwarts so suddenly?"

"Everything, my love. I have always known that I'd have to go into hiding as soon as Albus was no longer alive. His protection is all that keeps me out of the hands of the Aurors...Moody alone would do his best to have me in Azkaban, Order member or not. I won't be able to be useful to the Order any more, because no one will listen to or trust my information. I have to stay underground and try to carry out the plan before one side catches me or the other side exposes me-that's why I am here. But you don't have to be here, and the reasons for me bringing you are completely selfish. I'm sorry. If you want me to, I'll find a way to send you back..." _Idiot! She'll never ask it while under the spell. How hypocritical can you get?_

"Of course I want to help you, Severus," she says predictably. Her brow furrows a bit in the expression I've come to recognize as an inner conflict with the _Benevolus_. "I'm...a little worried about Harry needing my help..." she murmurs. I hurry to soothe her. "I promise, Hermione, Harry will be all right. And if you need to be with him, I'll get you there, I swear. My hope is that if we work together, Voldemort will be dead before Harry has a chance to be in danger again. We'll keep an eye on him; I still have ways of knowing what is going on at Hogwarts."

More conversation, some unpacking, and a brief bout of tears (mine) later, we settle down in the hastily cleaned four-poster bed. Hermione's body molds against my side, in my arms, contours matching so improbably, and I begin to drift. Too many emotions, too many conflicting ones, begin to blend and merge. My mind and body give in to sleep. My last conscious thought is that Draco is probably getting ready to brush his teeth right now-with a toothbrush that will Portkey him to a little-known Black family chateau in France.

My sleep is confusing. This is the end of an era, so it's not surprising that all of my dreams are mixed with memories, I suppose. But they feel so vivid, so detailed-memories of Albus through the years, memories of my times with the Death Eaters, Lily, Hermione, everything, right up through the earthquake of this day. The nightmarish parts are even more horrible than usual, because they don't feel dulled at all by time. The only bright spot is a feeling of Hermione's presence, like a soft golden thread in my mind. How extraordinary; even in my dreams, she is with me.


	8. Hermione IV

_J.K. Rowling owns all characters, and this work produces no profit._

**Hermione IV**

He thinks I'm sick, and I didn't even have to lie to him. When he found me in the bathroom yesterday morning, I was curled up on the tile, weak from vomiting and incoherent. He carried me back to bed and began casting diagnostic spells, and since then he's been hovering over me with potions. I take them without fighting; none of them will do me any harm, even if I wish they would.

I can't talk to him yet. I can't talk to anyone, I can't even talk to the Hermione Granger that existed two days ago until I process some more results of the insane, arrogant and unbelievably stupid thing I've done.

_I'm so clever that I can use an obscure spell to penetrate the mind of a man who loves me, _I said. _It's a good idea because then I'll know whether I can work with him or not,_ I said. Not once did I ask myself if I were strong enough to deal with what I would find. Not once did I wonder if an overpowered, augmented Legilimency spell might also result in an unusually intense contact. Not once did I link the things I've heard Snape scream about with what it might be like to have a more real experience of them. I'd like to tell myself that it was only the urgency I felt at hearing about Professor Dumbledore's impending death, and my need to know if Snape told the truth about what happened, that made me do it that night, but I'd be lying. I was impatient; I wouldn't have waited long in any case.

Now it's done. I've destroyed the person I was, and for what? So I could understand Snape? Oh, I understand him now, all right, but it doesn't matter. For it to matter, there would have to be a path forward from this. There'd have to be some kind of hope that these memories aren't going to be my whole life; that I might be able to taste food again without the copper taint of blood or see the sun without flinching from cold stone on my bruised body. That I could cradle a child without hearing its agonized screams; embrace a lover without recoiling from tearing pain and choking humiliation.

I know he gives me Dreamless Sleep a couple of times, because there are blank spots in my long fugue. I keep drinking whatever's in the cup he holds to my lips-chicken broth, potions, tea-with supreme unconcern about the fact that I'm drinking from the hand of the man who poisoned Dumbledore. Poisoned my genial, benevolent uncle figure. Poisoned my conniving, hypocritical betrayer. Will I ever care? Will I ever care about anything again?

One afternoon (the second? third?) I open my eyes and keep them open long enough to look at the room around me. Snape's sleeping in the armchair by the window, one of his worn leather notebooks on his lap. I can't take my eyes away from him-he looks so _ordinary_. Just a man in black robes, sallow of skin, hawk-nosed, long-fingered hands clutching pages of potions notes. How can he look like this? Shouldn't his skin be breaking open, disintegrating, spilling those memories out into the air? How is he breathing at all? What could possibly be keeping him away from that potion in the special box, the one I've seen now, the one I _want _now?

I drift back to sleep while daydreaming about that potions vial.

It's almost a day later that I finally speak directly to him again. I don't feel ready, but I'm even less ready to spend any more time this deep inside my own head playing Let's Find a Reason to Live.

"Severus?"

"Hermione, thank the gods. How are you feeling?" His hand skims over my forehead and settles on my wrist pulse. "I've been so worried; none of the potions were helping much. I wondered if it was a Muggle-I mean, a nonmagical infection more serious than I'd seen before; I was starting to think about taking you to a hospital..."

I smile slightly. "Don't worry any more, Severus, I'm going to be fine. Sorry I was so out of it, but now that I've turned the corner I should get better quickly. How long was I out? Tell me what's been happening."

"What's been happening? I've been trying to make sure you don't die on me for the past three days, Hermione Granger, that's what's been happening!" I shiver at his unfortunate choice of words _(whimpers dying into silence, living weight sagging into inert and a cold voice saying "Next...")_ "When you're well enough," he continues, "we'll finish setting up the lab and start the final phase of the potion, but right now I just want to make sure you don't have a relapse."

I push myself up on one elbow and rise to sit facing him. "Professor Dumbledore?" I ask quietly. He nods tiredly. "Yes, he's gone, Hermione. He died the morning after we left. The funeral was this morning. I'm so sorry, so sorry you didn't get to go."

"Poor Harry," I whisper, thinking about his overturned world and his lack of opportunity to confront Dumbledore with his new knowledge. "I'm sorry, Severus...I know he was so important to you for so long. How are you feeling?" As if I don't know that in excruciating detail. Laying aside the potions journal, he moves his chair closer to me and takes my hand. His hand feels warm against my skin, and I think again how strange it is that he's alive.

"I don't think it's really hit me yet, Hermione. I feel empty; as if I've just been born into the next life and it's blank so far. I'm trying to focus on Voldemort, I suppose-there will be time to grieve after he's defeated." He speaks no more, but I hear what he doesn't say. His intention to die permeates the air, and I'm not perturbed by it at all. Not anymore.

By the next morning I'm strong enough to override his protests and take part in organizing the lab. Once the equipment is set up, there's a lot of repetitive work to be done-all of the most common ingredients need to be prepared and stored, just as a kitchen needs sugar and flour and eggs on hand. The labor is welcome, and I am surprised to find how much working with my hands helps me get out of the memory spiral for a little while. No wonder he loves brewing so much; no wonder it's his refuge and his friend. Actually, I know now it always has been, one way or another.

_The potion settles in the cauldron and turns the desired shade of green. "Perfect, Mr. Snape, absolutely perfect!" A genial clap on the shoulder punctuates the words, and the awkward teen almost (though not quite) glows with pride, reveling in the resentful looks from Potter and Black and the nearly admiring glance from Lily._

_"Don't worry, Severus," says tall, beautiful, confident Lucius Malfoy, throwing an approving arm over the thin boy's shoulder. "He'll love you, and you'll be so useful to the cause. I wouldn't bring you before him if I wasn't sure of it." Entering the sumptuous room, they approach a dark-haired man with an odd red cast to his eyes. "Ah, young Severus," the Dark Lord pronounces with a pleased smile. "The potions genius. Dear Lucius has told me so much about you; I hear that you can brew simply anything."_

_This is it; this formulation is going to work. He's done it. Potions Masters have been trying for centuries, but Severus Snape has succeeded. Wolfsbane potion will prevent the feral madness that comes from the transformation, and perhaps some lives will be saved...a tiny, rare spurt of pleasure races through him at the thought of a small positive entry on his ledger._

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven stirs...add the diced hellebore. Don't think about anything else. One, two, three ounces of crushed mugwort. Watch the color; be ready to lower the flame. No room for the racing thoughts, he's safe behind the wall of concentration. Check the other cauldron. Images start to intrude; better start a third cauldron. Five minutes until the next step; find something to slice or dice or crush. There'll be no sleep tonight, but there will be potions for the hospital wing and St. Mungo's._

A week passes as Snape and I share the work, short conversations interspersed with long intervals of silence. I'm better at behaving more "normally" and getting slightly better at pushing away the despair. I'm getting acquainted with the tools the very depressed must have to use...some moments aren't too bad, but some come down to breathe in, breathe out, repeat. I worry about Harry and Ron and my parents-they must be frantic about my disappearance; I've got to find a way to let them know I'm alive if not well.

Funny, how irrelevant the questions about whether I can stop hating Snape enough to be his ally are now. No more questions, only goals: kill the real enemy. Kill Voldemort; kill fucking Tom Riddle, kill the nights of torture and rape and people's lives gulped up like hors d'oeuvres. Kill him, and then think about whether I can go on living.

This isn't Snape's project any more, it's ours.

I'm going to need to make some changes, though. I need to be a full partner in the research, and I can't do that while pretending to be all _yes-sweetie_ with him. It's time to confront Severus Snape and introduce him to the new, opposite-of-improved Hermione Granger.

While my hands slice and chop, I hammer out the details of my plan. One-tell Snape the truth. Two-ensure he can't do anything stupid during his immediate distress. Three-find a way to ensure that he won't check out before the time is right. Four-develop a working relationship between the two of us.

Three's the hardest one. You can't bind someone with an Unbreakable Vow when they actually want to die. What threat can bind Severus Snape? I think about that a lot, and at last I understand how I need to approach it.

"Tomorrow," says Snape with satisfaction as we tidy the lab that night. "Tomorrow we can begin the first simulations. I don't know how long it will take to improve the stability of the potion, but the sooner we get started, the better." He's right; the lab is ready. Supplies are prepared, the protective spells are in place and the counters beckon like a stage floor waiting to be filled. A frisson of excitement runs through me despite my dark state; an echo of the eager student I have always been. But I know it's not really going to be tomorrow. Tomorrow we have another task, and I'm not sure how long it will take.

After a quick supper, we retire to bed. Nestled in Snape's arms and replying to his sleepy words, I feel an unwilling stab of compassion at the thought of what awaits him in the morning. I imagined, before my trip through his mind, the depths of his shame about what he did and thinks he's still doing to me. But now I know my imagination was completely inadequate. Severus Snape, from the moment he awakes until the moment fatigue drags his resisting brain into the dark, drowns in a putrid ocean of self-loathing, and tomorrow the waves will be higher.

My own gut churns with dread and memory, my intimate knowledge making it impossible for me to take any pleasure at the thought of hurting him. Quite the opposite; I realize that, however sick our relationship, we are bound together under the skin now. He's needed me to help him go on living with his horrors, and now I need for us to figure out how to continue doing it. I don't want to believe all hope is gone for him, because then I'll have to believe it about myself too.

Silence has fallen, and I let out a long breath. I need to sleep; there's a hard day coming. I review the plans in my head and recheck the location of my wand. Sleep deeply, Snape; you'll need it too. Sleep deeply, _Severus_-I should start thinking of you by that name since we're going to be teammates. Maybe I should even admit that I'm not looking forward to lying alone in the dark again.


End file.
